


Hold (Revenge of the Sleepy Snuggle Monster)

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Fermata (Hold) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the gremlin venom incident, Dean wakes up confused and wondering why someone is in his bed.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold (Revenge of the Sleepy Snuggle Monster)

Dean's head hurts when he opens his eyes—not a pounding, throbbing migraine, but a quiet buzz of discomfort at his temples—and he blinks blearily in the direction of the nightstand, searching for the bright numbers of the alarm clock.

It's just after seven, with a gray hint of morning trailing in through the window, and Dean feels overheated and a little bit gross. He shifts uncomfortably, and only then realizes he's not alone in bed. The heavy weight of someone else's arm across his middle impedes his movements, and glancing down, he knows instantly that it's Sam's.

' _Well fuck_ ,' he thinks, and tries to remember why he's waking up with Sam in his bed.

All he can find in his head are bleary snapshots, sleepy and indistinct. A glimpse of his brother brandishing a cell phone and looking worried. A faint memory of kicking his own shoes to the floor and shivering when that made him cold. Snapping something at Sam, though he has no recollection of _what_ beyond a faint swell of irritation. And then Sam, settling close behind him—just like this—and the fuzzy pull sleep.

Dean's got a pretty varied vocabulary, especially for profanity, but there aren't enough curse words in the world—in _any_ language—to convey just how much of a disaster this is.

He wonders if Sam is really asleep. Dean wouldn't put it past his brother to lie there and play possum, waiting for Dean to wake up and react. On the other hand, if Sam had woken up first he probably wouldn't still be _in_ Dean's bed. Plausible deniability and all that.

As reality settles more solidly in, Dean becomes more and more sure that he can't deal with this right now. This cuts too close to things he's been stubbornly avoiding for months—too close to the way that he and Sam have stopped touching each other in even the most casual ways. And since avoidance is pretty much the only coping mechanism Dean has, he extricates himself as slowly and carefully as he can from the circle of Sam's arms—pausing with a racing pulse when Sam shifts and mumbles something in his sleep—and finally gets his feet on the floor.

A long, hot shower clears his head, but doesn't do a damn thing to help him figure out the important questions like ' _What now_?'

When he emerges from the bathroom, Sam is right where Dean left him, curled across the empty space Dean left behind, and sprawling like the whole damn mattress belongs to him. Dean turns his back and digs in his duffel for fresh clothes, changing as quickly as he can.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asks, just as Dean finishes buttoning his jeans. When Dean turns around, Sam is sitting up on the bed— _Dean's_ bed—still wearing the same smoke-dirtied clothes he had on for hunting gremlins yesterday.

"Fine," says Dean, leaning against the dresser and adopting what he hopes is a casual pose. He's not lying, technically—even his headache has cleared up. But Sam is looking at him strangely, with eyes so heavy and considering that Dean almost flinches under the weight of his brother's gaze.

"We should—" Sam starts, but cuts himself abruptly off. The silence that follows feels taut and expectant, like the sharp edge of unfinished business, and Dean manages to keep his mouth shut for all of thirty seconds before curiosity overpowers his better judgment.

"We should what?" he asks. The question instantly feels like a mistake.

"We should probably talk," Sam says, rubbing a hand across his face. This time Dean _does_ flinch, because yeah, definitely a mistake.

"There's nothing to talk about," he mumbles.

"Sure," Sam says tiredly. "Whatever you say." The surrender is too fast, and too dejected, and Dean heaves an irritated sigh as he pushes upright from the dresser. Three steps carry him across the room, and he sits at the foot of the bed—closer to Sam than he's comfortable putting himself right now, especially on the bed they goddamn _shared_ last night, but he can already picture the kicked-puppy look Sam will give him if he sits somewhere else.

"Fine," says Dean. "You want to talk? Let's do it and get it over with."

"This isn't working," says Sam. When Dean just gives him a quizzical look, he hunches his shoulders forward and continues, "This whole distance thing. I think we both know we've got issues, and we're not resolving them by refusing to so much as touch each other passing the salt."

Dean decides immediately to brush the words aside as useless psychobabble, because the alternative—admitting Sam has a point—isn't an option.

"Sure," he says. "Issues. Whatever you say, Sammy."

"I'm serious," Sam insists, inching closer along the bedspread until Dean is torn between the instinct to flee and the urge to stubbornly stand his ground. "Dean, we're brothers. Brothers hug all the time."

"And?"

"And we _don't_!" Sam exclaims, voice sharp with exasperation. "One of us has to be _dying_ to get so much as a pat on the back. That's not normal."

"Jesus, Sam, so what? So we're not as cuddly as some families, what's the big deal? Maybe we just don't need all that touch-feely crap." They definitely don't need to be having this conversation.

"We don't need it?" Sam says, sounding incredulous.

"That's what I just said."

"So last night was…?"

"A venom-induced fluke, dude. _Gremlins_. It totally doesn't count."

"No," says Sam, and Dean flinches at the steel he sees settling behind his brother's eyes. "You don't get to blame gremlins and call do-over. It doesn't work that way this time."

"The hell it doesn't," Dean mutters, and fuck standing his ground; he shifts away from Sam and moves to stand.

He doesn't expect Sam to grab his arm and drag him back down, and he lands awkwardly on the bed—overbalancing to one side and barely catching himself with his hand. They stare at each other, Sam too close and refusing to let go, and for a moment Dean sees wide-eyed surprise in his brother's eyes—like Sam didn't mean to do that, and suddenly has no idea what comes next.

"What's wrong with you, dude?" Dean asks angrily, trying to shake his arm free of Sam's grip. It's the wrong tactic, apparently, as the surprise bleeds from Sam's gaze to be replaced by frustrated determination. Dean barely registers a split second of anticipation before Sam is dragging him further up the bed and shoving him flat against the mattress.

"The _fuck_?" Dean gasps. But he doesn't put up a struggle when Sam's body settles intimately above him, pinning him in place.

"Enough," says Sam. His tone is soft and measured—a familiar, dangerous timbre that tells Dean maybe he's pushed his brother too hard this time. "Dean, this is ridiculous. I'm sick of taking turns playing dumb."

"Yeah?" Dean says, startled at the sharp challenge in his own voice. "What're you going to do about it?"

The silence that follows is almost worse than the pulse of confrontation. Sam stares down at him, hands fisting tighter in Dean's shirt, and the moment is so tense that Dean's surprised they don't just shatter to pieces.

When Sam finally speaks, it's in a tone full of determination and command. "I'm going to kiss you," he says. "And you're going to let me. And we'll figure it out from there."

' _Hell no_ ,' Dean wants to say. Or maybe, ' _Fuck you, Sam. And fuck your crazy talk_.' But his mouth refuses to open, and his throat is too tight for words anyway. He finds himself nodding instead—an abrupt, jerking motion of his chin.

"Okay," Sam breathes, face softening with the first hint of relief Dean has seen so far. And then Sam is leaning closer, propping himself up on one elbow by Dean's head while his other hand traces a tentative path up Dean's chest, along the sensitive length of his throat and into his hair.

Dean braces himself for the kiss, and the first press of Sam's lips feels strange and foreign. He closes his eyes, because he can't stand the way Sam is looking at him—curious and wondering and impossibly close—and apparently Sam takes that as approval. Sam's mouth moves on his, seeking a better angle, and when Dean unconsciously parts his lips, Sam's tongue is there in an instant. Tasting and testing and deepening the kiss.

Dean tries to keep his head. He tries to stay focused, and just let it happen, but Sam's weight is bearing him down against the mattress, and Sam's mouth is hot and demanding. Dean can't help it if instinct takes over and leaves him kissing back, or if his body shifts without his permission until Sam is pressed closer still, nestled between his legs.

Sam tries to pull away, but fails at it, and Dean groans when his brother breathes a quiet, " _Jesus_ , Dean," against his lips. They fall back into each other instantly, eager kisses and the rustle of clothing between them, and the niggling voice at the back of Dean's head that keeps saying, ' _No, stop, brother_ ' is getting softer by the second.

It's Sam that manages to stop first, and Dean growls in protest when the hungry, frantic kisses disappear and leave him nothing but empty space where his brother is supposed to be. Sam is propped up on both arms, breathing heavily and staring down at Dean with startle-wide eyes. Dean swallows hard and remembers how to breathe, and only then does reality settle back on.

They blink at each other for long, fractured moments, the air is electric between them.

"Oh," Dean says dumbly.

"Fuck," says Sam.


End file.
